September's sun, with autumn's glow,
Behind the hills was setting low,
Reflecting on Tioga's streams
The varied tinting of its beams.
And looking o'er to Barney's hill,
Where loudly sang the Whip-poor-Will,
His last clear song ere boreal time
Should force him to a warmer clime,
It tipped the tree tops with its light,
And kissed them, one and all, good-night.
The dusky shadows falling fast
A gloaming through the valley cast,
And when the russet glow had ceased,
It awed to stillness man and beast.
Each hill and valley, field and wood,
Seemed but a mighty solitude,
So calm and quiet the night had grown
Where nature called the scene her own.